About Schmidt Read online

  Once he had driven the thirty miles from Bridgehampton and found himself in Ted and Mimi’s house, he remembered his tergiversations and curiosity, and might have burst out laughing, because it was all so simple, if it had not been for the envy that stabbed him. The house was much like his, a brown clapboard affair with screened porches and sky-blue window shutters, surrounded by old trees. On the neat lawn in the back a band was playing New Orleans jazz. Pleasant-looking locals were handing drinks and canapés and other finger food to older types, many of whom he could identify without captions, and to young people cut from the same selection of cloths as the more presentable latter-day associates at W & K, and just as wholesome. Those would be the friends of the Walkers’ lawyer and banker kids. There was no tent; he supposed the house was big enough to feed this crowd, and anyway the night air would be too cold for a tent unless it was heated. For Charlotte’s wedding, he had planned to have a big tent close to the back porch, so that people could drift in and out. That was one difference. The other was his rotten luck; it was nothing but that: first Mary and then the dreadful business with Charlotte. Without that unseemly row, he could have managed. Ted didn’t have any more money than he. He could have given a great party—Mary and he could have done it with both hands tied behind their backs. All he needed was something to celebrate. But hold it: Why not throw a bash to introduce Carrie to society? With Bryan parking cars and the man in blackface behind the bar—if he could be found and cleaned up! Decidedly, there was no riddle to be answered here. This was just another catered party, given by a nice couple whose lives had not yet been broken. Their time would come.

  Despite his own indifference to the fortunes of the Walkers and his other former friends scattered among the guests, Schmidt took it hard that people he had once known well, and had not seen for an age, should not feel curious about him. For instance Ted: he had been perfectly polite and cordial, but then ditched Schmidt with the “Stay right here, I’ll be right back” of a busy host, not bothering to make sure he had someone to talk to. Abandoned, Schmidt crisscrossed the lawn, drifting in and out of groups, putting forward views and asking questions he knew were of no interest to himself or whomever he had happened to buttonhole. Resenting the intrusions of others into conversations he had begun only to feel excluded from them, drinking more and faster than usual in the hope that the repeated trips to the bar made his meanderings less conspicuous. A voice he knew well hailed him. It belonged to his former partner, Lew Brenner. What a surprise: Had the walls of Jericho fallen down?

  He said, Nice to see you, Lew. What are you doing at the Walkers’?

  I guess the same as you. Having a great time! Isn’t this a grand occasion?

  I mean I hadn’t realized you knew them.

  We’ve been friends for years. In fact, Tina and I play doubles with them once a week in the city, unless one of us is on the road. You know how that is!

  Behind Schmidt’s back! This too was hard.

  That’s nice, Lew. How are things at the firm?

  Not bad, we’re pulling out of the slough. Earnings for ’92 should be flat. That’s not great, but it’s better than ’91! Partners were going around saying they’d kill for a deal. Of course I couldn’t complain then and can’t complain now, because foreign work never dropped off, and that Jon Riker of yours and the rest of the bankruptcy gang are doing great things!

  Good for you, Lew. Good for Jon. You know, I never hear much about W & K anymore.

  That’s your fault! You should drop in, come to firm lunch. People miss you.

  I can’t believe that! Lew, tell me, are you having a good time here, do you have a good time at this sort of party?

  What do you mean? Sure, I’m having a fine time this evening.

  I can see that. What I really meant is how do you do it, how do you get to enjoy this?

  Tonight is special, because we like Ted and Mimi and the children so much. But generally? I don’t know. Parties are just for having a drink or two, talking to a couple of people, and soliciting clients! Right? I don’t take them seriously.

  I suppose you’re right, Lew. But these things always leave me discombobulated.

  You want to come and say hello to Tina?

  In a moment, I should say hello to Mimi first. You’re a good man, Lew. I wish we had been closer during all those years.

  It’s never too late!

  Although it was past eleven, he was among the first to leave. The band had moved indoors and was working its way through “St. Louis Woman.” Through the frame of the tall windows, he could see the older set dancing 1950s style, women clinging to the men. No problem: he would be home before Carrie.

  By the time he reached the end of the divided highway, the fog had thickened. That didn’t faze Schmidt. A man’s Saab is his castle. He turned on the fog lights, fixed his eyes on the freshly painted center line, and stepped on the gas. On the radio, a panel was discussing racial rage and violence: LA cops beating Rodney King and LA blacks beating Reginald Denny. Schmidt had seen both on television. No one was asking the crucial question: How does a man not get sick when he hears his stick go thwack on the head, the shoulders, the back of another man? Why doesn’t he feel the blows on his own squirming body and stop? Is it the adrenaline rush of rage? It was clear to him that he suffered from an adrenaline deficiency. Why else hadn’t he by now turned Sergeant Smith loose on the man without worrying about the old thwack? That’s because he wasn’t Sergeant Schmidt. Very funny! Meanwhile, the man was closing in. Cuckoo here and cuckoo there. One would think he was shacked up in the pool house! Perhaps he was: fed on the sly by Carrie.

  He turned off Route 27 at the first opportunity, and before he had gone a half mile realized he had made a mistake. This was no fog; it was like driving through a cloud. What to do? To turn back to the highway wasn’t that simple, and in the end he would have to head toward the beach anyway. To hell with it! He knew every turn of these roads by heart. There weren’t any other cars to worry about. The panel of experts on human nature was getting under his skin. He fiddled with the radio knob looking for jazz. There wasn’t any; just talk or country music. To hell with that too. He would sing to himself. Full steam ahead to the tune of L’amour est enfant de Boheme. No humming: words please. Toreador, toreador, l’amour, l’amour t’attend. How apt! No, he wasn’t in a cloud; he was in a black Saab convertible inside an immense, unending bottle of milk. Schmidt’s excitement mounted. Was he a horse smelling the stable, or could it be, at last, an adrenaline rush? This was almost the end of the first straight segment of Mecox, he felt in his bones the turn was coming up, then another straight stretch, and then Ocean Avenue. A piece of cake. If he could only see, his own driveway would be in sight. Schmidt’s operatic repertoire was limited. He launched into Vivan le femine! Viva il buon vino! Sostegno e gloria d’umanità! The Walkers’ wine was not bad, and as for Carrie—brava! He could sing that aria all the way home. But then a thud like the whole percussion section gone mad fills the car, its force throws Schmidt forward until the belt across his shoulder bites, and Schmidt squints, trying to make out the intentions of the great white fish swimming gracefully in the milk over the hood of the Saab, the face coming to meet his face across the windshield. Of course, the man! Although Schmidt has stopped singing, the music continues. Two terrifyingly slow measures, a pause that’s even more frightening, then the strings play in unison for all they’re worth, and the brass supports them. It’s the “Theme of the Steps”!

  The window shades in his bedroom were all up, letting in the early afternoon sun, and the air smelled of lilacs. They were there, white and night blue, in vases of all sizes, on the double chest of drawers once cluttered with photographs of Mary and Charlotte, on the long Chippendale table centered between the windows, on the tip table in the far corner of the room. He had told Bryan to keep cutting them. Since he wouldn’t be able to walk about in the garden before it was past its glory, he might as well have them in the room to look at and smell. Bryan had
brought his lunch and later taken away the tray, leaving only the bottle of Gewürztraminer Schmidt hadn’t finished with his meal and a glass. Schmidt took little sips of the wine. It turned his head very pleasantly. His convalescence was as good an excuse as any for drinking at lunch. As Bryan had put it, he wasn’t going anywhere so he might as well enjoy himself.

  Would you like to watch a film, Albert? asked Bryan just at that moment. I’ve got what you wanted. The Lady Vanishes and How to Marry a Millionaire.

  Schmidt didn’t want to. And he didn’t want to read or to be read to. He wanted to think his thoughts, drink his wine, and then drift off into a catnap until Carrie got back from the restaurant, took her shower singing and leaving the door open for him to hear, and then came to his bed all cool, slightly wet, like an African Venus risen from the sea foam. His broken ribs and broken left shoulder did not interfere with all forms of pleasure. In the meantime, while he was waiting for her, the painkiller the surgeon had prescribed—he had to keep a hawk’s eye on Bryan to make sure the stuff wasn’t looted—procured for him exquisite dreams. He was sure he would make a fortune if only he could charge admission to them.

  Bryan brought him the pipelike contraption with little blue balls enclosed in a plastic globe at its end. He was to breathe into it regularly and hard, and thus keep the balls dancing, for five minutes twice every hour. This country fair activity was supposed to prevent his left lung from collapsing again. It had collapsed twice already, once in the Southampton hospital and once when he was already at home, in Bryan’s care, which was galling to Bryan. It was extraordinary how seriously that boy took everything. Schmidt thought he had never been as clean as he was since Bryan began washing him. Those awful fingers could be very tender. Could it be that he had come to think of Schmidt as a broken piece of furniture? For instance, a Victorian rocking chair that one of the ladies whose houses he watched had bought at a yard sale and asked him to restore? Or was he “detailing” him? It had occurred to Schmidt that he could be underestimating Bryan when he suspected he might filch the Percodan. In normal times, yes, but so long as his patient needed it? That was a different story. When Carrie suggested to him in the hospital that Bryan would be better and more useful than a practical nurse when he came home, Schmidt’s reaction had been to think that he had helped her develop a nice gift for black humor. Bryan? he had replied. Why not the man himself? For you, he will rise from the grave! That crack made her cry, and he took her hand and agreed very quickly to hire Bryan. But Carrie was entirely right. Bryan had a real future in geriatric total care—according to The New York Times, a business with unlimited growth potential. He came to discuss the terms of his employment during Carrie’s working hours. Schmidt was alone.

  Albert, he told him, I appreciate this. I know I’m not your favorite person. I promise I’ll do a good job. You’ll see.

  Of course.

  I think I can learn a lot from you, Albert. It’s like I went back to school!

  Heavens!

  I’m not kidding. If you let me stay on in your house after you get well, I’ll take care of the house just for the room. I’ll fix anything that needs fixing and take care of anything you want done in the garden that Jim Bogard doesn’t do. If you want, I could go on living in the room off the kitchen.

  Aha! Schmidt hadn’t realized he was engaging a live-in keeper. A rather odd successor to Corinne in that room! On the other hand, what Bryan might get into his head to do with Carrie, he could do as well in the day as in the night, probably more easily during the day, because at night Carrie would be in bed with Schmidt, one would hope otherwise engaged.

  The room off the kitchen is all right while you’re nursing me to health. If I ever get well! Afterward, we’ll talk. I can’t think that far into the future.

  He was beginning to feel tired, and wondered whether he should discreetly ring for the floor nurse.

  Albert, you know it’s over between Carrie and me. You’ve won.

  Schmidt smiled wanly. Was this a trap?

  You know I figured it out right away, even before she moved into your house. It’s OK. We were just into some sex. It isn’t like she cared. Man, she really likes you!

  Perhaps that’s how it really was and how it was to remain. One would see. We’ll talk about it when Carrie’s here, he told Bryan.

  The previous day, before his lung collapsed, which happened in the afternoon and caused the nice intern to panic because, it being Sunday, he couldn’t get hold of the surgeon, Charlotte and Jon came to see him. When he asked whether they had just driven in, they said no, they had spent the night at the house. Counting the silver, thought Schmidt. He had spoken to them, Charlotte and then Jon, on the telephone, as soon as he got out of emergency care. Jon showed right away how having been trained at a first-class New York law firm makes a man useful, in all circumstances.

  You know, the bum you ran into was dead when the police and the ambulance got there. Fortunately, the autopsy showed he was really tanked up. Besides, according to the skid marks, you were in your lane, going at a normal speed. I talked to Vince—that was the senior litigating partner, a former prosecutor—he doesn’t think they’ll charge you. To be on the safe side, we’ve hired that Shaugnessy fellow in River-head. He knows his way around the courthouse.

  I wonder what was in my blood, thought Schmidt. Could it be that they didn’t test it?

  Renata called the surgeon. He says you’ll be just fine. There’s no concussion. We’ll come out to see you on Sunday.

  So there they were, right on time. No flowers, Schmidt observed, or anything else that might spoil him. Perhaps within the family one skipped these sentimental gestures. He noted with satisfaction that Charlotte’s skin sparkled. What a beautiful girl she was! He told her so, and added that she looked more and more like Martha, the Anglo-Irish beauty. Did Anglo-Irish with its High Church connotations (if she knew about them!) strike the wrong note? She got right down to business.

  Dad, the Saab was totaled. If they don’t take away your license, I guess you can drive Mom’s car. What about the VW? Is it still mine? If it is, we’ll drop off the Avis car here and drive the VW to New York.

  I gave it to you. The only reason it’s in my name is insurance. You know that.

  All right, so that is settled. Dad, what is that Hispanic girl doing in the house, and what is she doing in your and Mom’s bedroom?

  Holy cow! He had forgotten. It was bound to come up, sooner or later.

  You mean Carrie? She sleeps there.

  With you!

  When I’m there. Yes.

  Dad, how long has that been going on? That girl must be younger than me.

  She is. What’s the expression for it? Winter-spring romance. Or do you say spring-winter?

  We don’t think it’s funny. She looks like someone out of a movie about gangs.

  Possibly. I think they look for the prettiest girls for those parts.

  It was time for the lawyer son-in-law to intervene.

  She’ll rob you blind, Schmidtie. You’ve got every right to do what you want and live your life, but you should be protected. I’ll speak to Dick Murphy. He’ll set up something to stop her from getting hold of your money.

  I think I can talk to Dick myself if that becomes necessary. By the way, Carrie works hard as a waitress and saves her money. She doesn’t show any interest in mine.

  Someone will tell her to get interested. Just wait! That was Charlotte’s contribution. Anyway, I don’t want her at our wedding. I hope you weren’t planning to bring her.

  Lord Harry, Charlotte! You really are old-fashioned. So you are planning a semirestricted event: People of the Hebrew faith are welcome, people of color need not apply! Very nice! Have you checked that against the firm’s equal opportunity policy, Jon?

  You are off the reservation! Stop talking like that!

  Don’t raise your voice, Jon. I told you when you were still a young associate that’s always bad form, a sign of insecurity.

  T
hey left shortly afterward, and he began to feel he couldn’t breathe right.

  Don’t make plans. That was a deep insight, although, as Schmidt would be the first to admit, not one that applied to every situation. Before the problem with the man was solved, Schmidt had intended to call his former partner Murphy—in his thoughts always that clown Murphy—to ask if he could get away with not paying a gift tax if he paid Carrie’s tuition at Southampton College and any other costs directly, instead of giving her the cash. Why should he give the government more money than he absolutely must to waste on the space program and making Afghanistan safe for Western values? And he had planned to ask Murphy, as an aside, about the law that had come out of palimony suits and the like. But after that clown Riker—another one!—had opened his mouth he felt he was goddamned if he was going to stoop so low. The circumstances had changed.

  He tried to reach for the mail on the night table. The pain stopped him.

  Albert, is there anything you want? You shouldn’t be moving around in the bed.